


The Other Thing

by sachspanner



Series: 7-Day Challenge #2 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Introspection, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachspanner/pseuds/sachspanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for LJ's dailyfics comm, under the prompt 'Remorse'. Leaving Sherlock's graveside, John laments not saying something earlier. Contains some dialogue from 2x03, The Reichenbach Fall, used lovingly, and with full credit to the BBC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Thing

‘I was so alone,’ John said. ‘And I owe you so much.’

The truth of the feeling hadn’t really hit him until he said that. Afghanistan had destroyed his faith in God, and Sherlock Holmes had turned up just in time to give him faith in man. It was a faith he couldn’t let go.

He tried to walk, away, then, but he was angry. Of course he was angry. His Sherlock had been stolen from him. His Sherlock.

‘Look, please, there’s just one more thing,’ he implored the lifeless stone. ‘One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me? just… stop it. Stop this!’

A tiny piece of his heart wanted to believe it could be done. If anyone could, it was Sherlock. How much had he adored this man to believe that he could escape that? He had seen his jump, him fall… he had seen his brilliant eyes, empty, he had seen the blood- oh God, the blood.

In the desert, the dry ground would absorb the blood of the fallen. It looked after its dead. Concrete was not so kind.

London had been such an ugly place for such a beautiful man to die.

Both of them had been drawn to her. Too poor to live in her boundaries, but unable to live anywhere else. She drew them in, made them love her. She was quick, and clever- she had suited Sherlock in that way. She had suited John because she was like Sherlock.

Somewhere along the line, lost in thought, he’d left the cemetery. He’d seen a shadow which looked a bit like Sherlock, but he’d pushed it out of his mind. He had been seeing Sherlock's ghost everywhere since the fall, and it hadn’t done him any good.

Every time he tried to take a closer look, it was just somebody else- a man who’d bought a coat back when Sherlock was the talk of London, rather than yesterday’s news. John wanted to scream at them. They’d called him a liar, they’d taken his clothes and they’d killed him. They’d killed him.

Sherlock was his best friend. Sherlock was his only friend. Without Sherlock, he’d have been the one on that roof.

Did Sherlock know how much he meant? Of course, he was self-important, on the brink of megalomania, and John hadn’t helped that. Had he known what he meant to John?

Sherlock had tried to make him believe the lies too. John wouldn’t believe them, Sherlock should have known that. He should have known John had thought him perfect from almost the moment he met him.

Now Sherlock Holmes was dead, barring miracles. He couldn’t ever know how much he meant to John. He knew he was amazing. He knew he was clever. But he didn’t know the other thing. Because John never said the other thing, not even in his head.

If he did, he might never stop crying.


End file.
